


Viva el Rey

by consultingdetectivesherlockh



Category: Alice in Wonderland - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Gen, It's sort of a fusion of Alice (1988) and Sherlock as a case., M/M, Mind Palace, Oraculum, That movie is messed up, Well - Freeform, poppies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:03:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingdetectivesherlockh/pseuds/consultingdetectivesherlockh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock didn't mean to abandon John. The chase, the work, had carried him away from his friend and led him through the park and into a dense section of trees. John, who nearly tailed him as he chased the young criminal, had disappeared almost immediately when the leaves began to melt together. The idiotic waistcoat-wearing, watch-thieving arse of a criminal dashed ahead at such a speed that Sherlock had completely missed where he went. He stopped at the thickest trunk he had seen in his life; to stop, he slammed face-first and tumbled down. The fall itself was incredibly long and boring. Sherlock gasped with excitement when it came to an end, greeted by glowing tree leaves and a man in a tall hat that looked strangely like a doctor that he knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jam tomorrow and jam yesterday, but never jam today.

The case, oh the case. Not a 6, 7, 8, 9 or 10. On the scale, Sherlock would give it an 11. He followed it without the knowledge of the Yard, something sparking his interest immediately at the simple title of “beheading”. There weren’t many of those in London. He had no idea what to do with himself when he received the news of it, other than to watch the paper and wait for the moment the police task force caved and called him in. It took them three days, 7 hours, 18 minutes, and 45 seconds.

When the familiar jingle of Sherlock’s mobile erupted, the experiment sprawled out throughout the kitchen lost all appeal. Even the sound of John waking up (for the third time, no less) with a shriek couldn't grab his attention. _Mental note: Ask after John's well-being._  Lestrade’s exhausted voice drawled on the other end, something about needing him, nobody else can figure it out. Sherlock tuned out completely until he heard something resembling a piece of information about the murders.  _Creak. Step, step, step_.

"No connection.."

_Step._

"..ten to fifty years.."

_Step._

"..various ages, ethnic backgrounds.."

 _Step. Yawn._ John entered the room, rubbing his eyes of all mucopurulent discharge. He opened the top cabinet.  _Bloody hell, why is that so high?_  Standing on his toes, he pulled out two porcelain cups.

“..the beheadings. Err, well, the 7 of them. Damn it, Sherlock. Are you even listening?” Lestrade questioned, his voice rising at the end of the sentence as his annoyance increased. Sherlock could tell just by the sound of his voice that he had been so out of his depth that even Anderson and Donovan agreed that Sherlock’s assistance was needed.

John thoughtlessly bumbled around, making his way to the kettle and boiling the water for their teas.

“Just come to the scene. We need you,” Greg insisted dismally, shuffling through the files on his desk as a sigh whispered through the speakers of the mobile phone and over Sherlock’s cheek. The scraping of paper on paper, the tactile, feathery texture of cellulose snagging similarly textured sheets boomed in the background.

Sherlock snorted. _Obviously_.

“Sherlock.”

“Fine.”

“Great, yeah. Thanks.”

A moment of silence rang over the telephone line. “And?” Sherlock prompted, eyes following John as he searched for his jam.

“And we haven’t got any heads to match them with. There aren’t any I.D.s on the vics and DNA isn’t providing us with anything substantial.”

One of Sherlock’s brows rose. Thankfully, that action could not be heard. He wouldn’t want to give away his interest in the case. “No heads? Have you checked nearby bins?”

John hummed to himself, "where the sodding hell did I put it," and scavenged through the pantry, refrigerator, and even under the sink. Sherlock tapped the lid of the jar next to him.

"Thank you," John mouthed. He bustled behind Sherlock, preparing two cuppas and starting the toast with a self-satisfied grin. 

“No heads. And yes, Anderson did. He thought you might suggest that,” Lestrade replied, snide tainting his voice. Sherlock could picture the forensic scientist shifting through scraps of fast food and cigarettes. He nearly choked on his own breath.

Sherlock fiddled with an amputated finger. _Middle, broken twice on the middle phalange, calluses on the tips of the fingers, suggesting experience with string instruments, likely guitar (male finger)._ He dropped it in the formaldehyde with the rest of them. “Fine. Latest crime scene?” he asked.

“Still open. The body looks about twelve hours old, but John can tell you more about that when he gets here.”

“Text me the address. We’ll arrive in due time. Don’t wait up,” Sherlock muttered as he hung up, tossing the mobile on the kitchen counter. He slipped of the protective goggles covering his face and leapt up in excitement, not unlike a child.

“Brilliant!” he exclaimed, smacking the tin of fingers he prepared for his experiment off the counter and onto the floor.

“Not cleaning that up,” John yawned, sticking a knife into the jar of gooey, clinochlore mush. Sneakily, he smeared a line of saccharine goodness on his tongue.  _Delicious._[  
](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clinochlore)

A vibration came from the counter. Sherlock’s mobile lit up and displayed ‘new text’.

**_Golders Green, London NW11_ **   
**_7QP_ **   
**_GL_ **

Sherlock clapped and slipped his mobile in his pocket. “John, murder,” he gushed, pushing the man out to the sitting room and up the stairs. John spluttered as he was forced through the flat, reddish-pink stains on his finger. The smell of burnt bread wafted through the air. “Get dressed; we are leaving.” 

"But my jam-"

"Murder, John! Case now, jam tomorrow!"

"Damn it, my toast-"

"You had some yesterday. Just get ready!" Sherlock slammed the door in his shocked and vaguely confused face.

"Jam tomorrow and jam yesterday, but never jam today," John grumbled and dragged his feet from the door to his closet. He took his time pulling on his jumper, the faint fragrance of lavender and formaldehyde stuffing up his nose. An experiment, Sherlock had called it at the time. Personally, John didn't care. It smashed into the ground, which conveniently had been covered in a pile of John's clothes. Three washes and he still couldn’t wash clean the stench that came from a jar of eyeballs shattering on the sleeves. He sighed. Pulling on his pants, and then trousers, he finally stepped out of his room and galloped downstairs.

Damn it all if John wouldn’t make Sherlock’s day difficult. The starchy smell of burnt crumbs hung in the air. “It didn’t wash out,” he grumbled, putting on his coat and shoes.

"Hm?"

"The eyeball smell. It didn't come out."

“Oh? Pity,” Sherlock muttered, toying with his phone. He'd already dawned his signature cashmere scarf and belstaff coat.

“Berk.”

“Idiot.”

John glared momentarily, matching the menacing stare Sherlock threw at him. Electricity filled the air. The small fire in the kitchen seemed to spark up from it. John glanced back, and then Sherlock. They broke down into laughter almost instantly.

John, of course, was the one who had to put it out and clean up the mess. After he finished smothering the smoke and miniature flames and binned the charred remains of morning toast, he packaged up his jam and went to the door with his flatmate.

“Alright, where to?” John asked.

Sherlock held the door open for him. “Golders Hill Park,” he replied, racing down the stairs. A cab awaited them on the curbside. Sherlock recited the address to the cabbie and leaned back in the leather upholstery, eyes closed and hands brought to together in his traditional pose. 

"So the case," John started after a few moments of silence.

Sherlock peeked through the corner of his left eye. "What about it?" he asked.

"Is it the one you've been following? The beheadings?"

"Yes."

"Shit. Alright," John muttered, looking out the window to avoid Sherlock's eyes. He rested his cheek on the palm of his hand and watched the buildings go by for the last five minutes or so of the cab ride, picturing the scene that was waiting for them.


	2. Of shoes and ships and sealing wax. Of cabbages and kings...

_Bloody hell_ was the first thought in John's head when he came to the scene. The second one was a question of where on Earth the victim's head had gone.

The body, which is the only thing it could be called, considering it was just that; a body without a face. There was a clean cut across the top of the throat just above the hyoid bone. The strangest part was that not a drop of blood was on the body; instead, it was all in a small pail by the patch of roses. Sherlock's mouth actually dropped when he spotted the cut, snapped shut, and then opened and gleefully exclaimed, "Brilliant! A mystery of grand proportion."

The pail, silver all except for a small, painted scarlet heart on the outside, was only nearly half full. The rest of its contents dripped from the thorns and petals of the roses, making them appear to be Double Delight Hybrid Tea roses rather than their usual snowy appearance. 

It didn't take a genius to figure out that the victim's head was not actually removed on scene. However, why had the killer kept it? What purpose did it serve to drop the headless corpse in a public park? John thought of all this as he watched his flatmate and the Yard coordinate.

The first twenty or so minutes of investigation went as followed: bicker with Anderson and Donovan about the location of the head, check every inch of the park, from playground to trees and flower patches to inside the main building itself, inspect the once-white roses and assortment of other flowers for clues, and return to the body to deduce what Sherlock can get from what he's left with. It was a waste of time for everyone involved.

John stood on the sidelines with a collection of witnesses, ranging from five year olds and seventy five year olds. Particularly, he sat with a young girl and chatted about the way the roses seemed to shimmer with their new red shade and the strange red paw prints that trailed from them. 

"I saw a rabbit!" the girl, Alice, insisted. She brushed back a string of sunblonde hair, gushing excitedly with her chubby little fingers flailing around. Scrapes from the thorns of the roses covered her little knuckles. "It was white, and fluffy with bright blue eyes and large, floppy ears. I saw it in the roses."

"Lovely. Did you get a picture of it?" John asked, gesturing to the disposable camera in her mother's hand. The woman shook her head quietly. Alice shook her head too, frowning. She clutched a handful of her pastel blue dress.

"No, Mum wouldn't let me take it. I wish I did, Mister Watson! He had a cute little waistcoat and clock on a string-"

"Rabbits don't wear waistcoats, Alice-" her mother started, holding up a finger and adapting a firm tone of voice as if to beat down the idea of rabbits in clothing with a proverbial stick.

"-and hopped around, muttering about how he was gon' get caught!" the girl finished proudly. Her bright teeth glittered behind her peachy, plump lips. She laughed and clapped her hands. 

"Caught for what?" John asked, smiling at her. Having too many sweets, he thought. Alice bounced like a syringe of sugar was high-lined into her bloodstream. She was adorably fidgety, bright, innocent, and insistent on seeing the world.

"'Off with his head, off with his head'!" Alice giggled. Her eyes scrunched up, nose too, as her pale little cheeks filled with blush. John swallowed nervously and glanced back to the body, and then to her mother, whose face was pale and eyes wide with fear. Alice went on as if nothing was wrong. "'Off with his head,' said the Queen!"

"Did you see his head come off, Alice?" 

"No, but I saw him hide in the bushes. Look at the little red feeties!" she squealed, pointing in the direction. John stood, waving goodbye, and went to the tracks. He followed them closely, thought the path was short, noticing they got cut off just as a pair of what looked to be size 8 to 10 boots crossed over them and toward the playground. He stood up, using his eyes to trace the rest of the path, and went back to Alice. He held out his hand. She grabbed it with two of hers and swung it all around.

"Thank you, Miss Alice," John said with a tight grin. Alice smiled and nodded, twirling around playfully. Sherlock came behind the doctor, inducing a fit of giggles in the young girl. She released his fingers and scurried back to her mother, whom clutched her tight to her chest and ran off to the other group of parents.

"Come, John," Sherlock hissed. "The killer is among us. I doubt that a small child could do this."

John rolled his eyes and followed the detective's lead. Midway to meeting up with Lestrade, Alice dashed up and tugged on Sherlock's coat.

"Hey, Mister!" she yelled. 

"Yes, Alice?" John asked before Sherlock could say a rude thing to the poor child.

"That man," she turned and pointed at a twenty five to thirty year old man with short, powdery blonde hair, "is wearing Mister Rabbit's coat and clock. I think he knows where Mister Rabbit is!"

John nodded as Sherlock patted her head and turned her away. "Yes, thank you. Run along. We will investigate," he muttered, continuing the way they were headed. 

Meanwhile, John studied the man in question with his eyes. He was tall, taller than Sherlock, even, with tight, white trousers clinging to his legs. He wore a silk lavender dress shirt and purple waist coat, a pocket watch dangling from his right pocket. Out of the left pocket stuck an obscenely large pair of sheers with splashes of red on the handles. 

"Sherlock," John started.

"Lestrade says," Sherlock said simultaneously. He glared fiercely at his friend and stomped forward. John cleared his throat and grabbed Sherlock's arm.

"Sherlock," John tried again. 

"What?" Sherlock looked down on the man, eyes squinted and face dangerously close. 

"The man, that one over there."

"The one the little girl pointed out?"

"Yes, him. He has-"

"Don't care-" Sherlock started to pull away. John's fingers tightened around his bicep.

"His pocket-"

"Do not care-" Sherlock smacked his fingers.

"Murder weapon, Sherlock!" He froze.

Sherlock's head whipped around and studied the silver utensil in question. It seemed ridiculous, considering they could barely fit around a neck, much less cut through it, but when he realised they could fold up, tear apart, and hide nearly inconspicuously in a pocket, he went dashing at the man in question. John followed behind him closely. 

Unfortunately for them, the man they were chasing was not a man at all.


	3. Down the Rabbit Hole

Sherlock didn't mean to abandon John. The chase had carried him away from his friend and led him through the park, into a dense section of trees, and away from the eyes of the police force. John, who nearly tailed him as he chased the young criminal, had disappeared almost immediately when the leaves began to melt together. The idiotic waistcoat-wearing, watch-thieving arse of a criminal (Sherlock identified the old watch as the one Lestrade lost nearly two weeks back) dashed ahead at such a speed that Sherlock had completely missed where he went. He stopped at the thickest trunk he had seen in his life; to stop, he slammed face-first and tumbled down between two roots.

The fall itself was incredibly long and boring. Blackness surrounded him. Soon enough, however, playing cards and furniture such as desks and red thrones peaked from the tunnel walls. He crashed into a velvet chair and tumbled over a pile of teacups and pottery. Loud smashing sounds echoed around him. A black bicycle (estimated era of creation: 1920) with one tire and one round coin ejected from the ground. Sherlock scrambled to get around it.

The next problem he faced was the growing shrubbery. Why the shrubbery began in the middle of the cavern, he didn't care. However, the main issue at hand was the fact that he tumbled into trees hard enough to concuss himself. At least, that was the diagnosis he gave himself as the leaves began to shimmer and glow in various shades of blue and purple. 

The tunnel morphed into a kaleidoscope of colour and light. Sherlock couldn't help but watch in awe at the images around him. He saw dancing cards of every suit, a grasshopper playing a melancholy tune via cello, and a small, handsome rabbit in a waist coat.  _Wait, bugger, run that way._

Sherlock weaved through the magenta tree trunks, musical insects, and game pieces after the rabbit. The murderer, he thought. He couldn't lose him. As the darkness around him faded away into a persistent, medial blue, he increased the rate of his footsteps by seventy percent. He gasped with excitement when the tunnel came to an end and was greeted by a long table where a small mouse and a man in a tall hat that looked strangely like a doctor that he knew sat.  _John?_

Not-John, or the Hatter as he was usually called, was adorned in a silver waistcoat and a shimmering teal shirt and purple-and-black striped trousers. The hat perched on his shaggy grey-blonde hair was tattered and brown, excluding the rose, emerald, and sapphire patches that covered the holes in them. He tilted his head in awe at the sight. Visitors were rare, so very rare now in Underland. A somewhat goofy grin spread his unnaturally pink-purplish lips, revealing pearly white teeth that perfectly matched the tone of his skin.

"Welcome!" the Hatter exclaimed, throwing his cup of tea about. Brown tinted liquid sloshed over in the direction of the poor mouse. His hat, lopsided on his head, fell back because of the motion. His eyes shone brighter than normal-John's, sparkling with excitement. "We've been waiting far too long for you. You're terribly late you know - naughty!" On that last word, he leapt up on the table and stomped over the china to tap Sherlock's nose. The detective flinched at the contact and pushed the strange man away.

"Why are you waiting for me?" Sherlock asked, curious as to how this strange John-look-a-like would know he was going to tumble through a tree trunk and land precariously in a world that reminded him of his drug-using days. "I wasn't aware that I had any engagements with you, considering the fact that I don't even know who you are."

"Oh, tsk tsk, Mister Holmes!" the Hatter sing-songed, that slightly wild look still in his eyes. He waved his finger and leapt off the table, grabbing the man by his shoulders and seating him at the chair nearest to the head seat. The Hatter plopped into his torn up, velvet throne. "Manners, Sherlock. Goodness! You had much more of them when you were here the last time. Now, sit and enjoy your tea." He waved his arm in the direction of the various teapots and cups.

"Last time?" Sherlock mumbled to himself. He slowly and very cautiously lifted the nearest cup and brought it to his lips. He tilted it back and scowled when nothing entered his mouth. His eyes shot down to the cup. It was lacking a bottom. "Enough. This is ridiculous. You're a citizen of this land, correct? Tell me where I am and where I can find the rabbit with the waistcoat."

"You're in Underland! Don't you remember? I do so loved your weekly visits those many years ago. You were much more pleasant," the Hatter trailed off, his eyes glazing over as he let the memories of Sherlock, who, at the time, was in Uni and shooting up nearly every weekend, fill his head.

"No, I don't. The rabbit," Sherlock gritted through his teeth.

"The White Rabbit? Oh, Nivens won't be back for quite awhile, I'm afraid. The Queen sent him on a mission," the Hatter sang. He grabbed a cup and threw it near a purple glowing tree. "Thackery! Mally, would you get Thackery for me?"

The dormouse nodded and zigzagged around the dishes and into the grass. Moments latter, she came back with a brown-grey hare behind her. "Here he is, Hatter!" Mallymkum exclaimed. She sounded, Sherlock noted, almost exactly like Molly Hooper.

"Thackery! It's tea time!" The Hatter wailed joyously.

"No, it isn't," Sherlock growled. The Hatter quirked a brow, turning his shining eyes Sherlock's way.

"Oh, I would say it is," he responded with a wink, tapping his red-tinted fingers on a cup. "Drink."

"I'd rather not."

"I'd say you'd rather do."

"Why is that, madman?"

"Mad Hatter," Thackery corrected.

"Because, Sherlock," The Mad Hatter started, "the times are difficult and tea fixes all. Drinking it will drown away the troubles. We are in danger, and the Queen is sure to cart us away soon."

"Is the tea alcoholic?"

"Heavens, no!" The Hatter chuckled.

"Drugged?"

"No?"

"Then why drink it?"

"Comfort, Sherlock. Why do you do any of the things you do?"

Sherlock shrugged and rose from his seat. "I'm leaving," he announced.

"No, you aren't," the Hatter said firmly. He stood and glared up. "The Oraculum said you would be the one who put the Queen back in her place." He turned abruptly and clicked his heel. "You can't leave."

"You'll find that I, in fact, can!" Sherlock shouted, stomping in the direction Thackery came from. The Hatter followed close behind.


	4. If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense.

"Sherlock, wait. You mustn't leave. We need you," the Hatter huffed.

"Goodbye," Sherlock deadpanned.

"Sherlock Holmes, you have a responsibility to face your destiny as it is written out in the Oraculum."

"Go away."

"Sherlock!" The Hatter yelled, pinning the detective against a tree trunk. Anger flashed over his eyes, deepening the purplish-pink bruises around his eyes. "You have an obligation to me and these people. You are the only one that can help. If you do not follow me to the castle on Frabjous Day, I will see to it that Frabjous Day is the worst day of your existence!"

Sherlock away from him and nodded, acknowledging the man as he would an angry John. "Fine. Lead the way, Mad Hatter," he seethed.

"Hatter is just fine," the Hatter, muttered, walking off in the direction of a dirt path. "Follow me." Sherlock obeyed his command, walking so closely behind him that he nearly collided into his back.  The Hatter turned around and walked backwards, watching the detective closely.

"What?" Sherlock snapped. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Nothing. You've changed is all," the Hatter shrugged. "If you didn't come for Frabjous Day, why are you here? What do you want with Nivens McTwisp?"

"He is linked to a series of murders. Beheadings," Sherlock explained.

The Hatter barked out a laugh. "It wasn't McTwisp. The Queen ordered it."

"He had the murder weapon."

"Circumstantial."

"In his pocket."

"Planted."

"There was blood on his cuffs."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, he was forced to do it! Does that make you feel any better?" The Hatter screeched. "There have been many orders, so many missions that he was sent on. he plopped the bodies in place just after he clipped their heads off," his voice darkened, unlike the happy tone he had previously used. He went to Sherlock's side and wove their arms together, glancing around them at the gold and blue trees as if they could hear him. "Hundreds of people have died. Been executed because the Queen did not approve of their minds. Frabjous Day is the day you are destined to strip her of her power and end these killings."

Sherlock frowned at their twined arms. "Your 'Queen' sounds hardly like a monarch. 'Tyrant' or 'dictator' would be a better title for her," he replied, smirking. "This prediction is incorrect. It is impossible to tell the future. Why would she put the bodies in London?" His eyes wandered about, looking at the beautiful trees as he thought.

"London? Where is London? I would like to go there," the Hatter smiled, his expression changes nearly giving Sherlock mental whiplash. 

"London, Britain, Europe, Earth. Haven't you been outside of this awful place before?" Sherlock asked. He was bewildered by their conflicting collections of knowledge. 

The Hatter shook his head, a dark look on his expression, "No one leaves Underland. If they do, Heart Moran finds them."

"Moran?"

"The Queen's right hand man. He lurks in the shadows and strikes when least expected," the Hatter explained, looking over his shoulder. "He is after us."

"Doubtful. I just arrived. Even so, we would notice. Mally and Thackery would notice our screams and absence."

"Do not be so sure, Mr Holmes. Sebastian Moran lives only in the shadows. He can strike whenever he wishes and disappear without a trace-"

"We would!" Mally exclaimed, running from behind a tree and climbing up Sherlock's clothing to hid in his pocket. Thackery appeared on the other side of the Hatter. "We would notice, Hatter."

Sherlock snorted. The sentence reminded him of the romantic drivel John transcribed in his blog. "Sebastian Moran must be a coward if he won't show his face. I will assist you in taking down the Queen and her knight," he said. His eyes wandered down to the little mouse on his shoulder. "Hello."

"Hi," she squeaked back. 

"Hello," Thackery said.

"Hello!" the Hatter exclaimed at the group of them, grinning. His smile seemed off, a stark contrast to the madness in his eyes. It seemed like a frown flipped, but looked happy at the same time. Worried? Sherlock wondered. He was baffled by the expressions his face made in the short amount of time he knew him.

"I don't believe in destiny, Hatter. I believe in science and cold fact," Sherlock proclaimed. The Hatter's face wiped clean of any expression when he realised what Sherlock was probably getting at. Curious how this John acted like his own at the strangest of times. He carried on. "Science, specifically medicine, tells me that mercury poisoning is the probable cause of your pallid complexion, red fingertips, mood swings, and utter madness. You should get that checked by a professional. Have you any doctors in Underland?"

"Science? What is science? There are spells that the charmers of the land cast upon us, and that is that. People have capabilities," the Hatter said. "Mercury? I know someone called Mercury." The Hatter's train of thought seemed to be jumping about, and he spoke his mind, evidently. He couldn't seem to contain it. Not really. The only thing he had control over was the darkness. He kept that inside, intending to never share the trauma with anyone but himself. 

Mally frowned and titled her head his way. "Hatter, are you alright?"

The Hatter offered a weak smile. Sherlock groaned.

"My God, you're nearly as bad as I. I suggest you organize your thoughts in a mind palace. It would help prevent mental whiplash," Sherlock grumbled. He grabbed the Hatter's hand and squeezed. It was something John did for him whenever his mind got away from him.

The Hatter blinked when his hand was taken, then smiled widely. "A palace? I've only ever been in one Palace, and that was before the Queen ruled. I am told she has turned it into an architectural devastation, though it is said to be beautiful there," he murmured, sighing dramatically. 

Sherlock smiled back, not entirely falsely, and nodded. "A palace. You can assemble it in any fashion that you would like in your mind, and store away information in every room of it. You will have the chance to see the Palace again, though it will look different than it does now," he muttered, winking at the Hatter. Hopefully, he thought. If they eliminated the Queen, the Palace could be restored by a better leader. "I have a friend who is a doctor. He can help you after we eliminate the Queen."

"You are kind, Mr. Holmes, but where is your friend? I cannot leave Underland," the Hatter said, sounding a little distressed at the idea, his eyes flicking about all over the place, to every rustle and every tweeting sound of an odd looking bird.

"He is in London. Why can't you leave Underland? I can take him to you, if I must. You need medical attention."

Thacker piped in. "No one leaves Underland!"

"No one but the White Rabbit!" Mally added

"Underland needs me! I cannot leave them," The Hatter insisted in an uncharacteristically strong voice, gesturing at his friends. "Not when the threat will still be there, not when I failed to hold the Queen back. I will not abandon my people." He was acting more like this 'John' person than he had previously led on, Sherlock noted. He inhaled once then calmed, shoulders relaxing. "I must stay." 

"You may stay. Underland is lucky to have you."

"Oh? How is that?"

"You are similar to my doctor, Hatter. Loyalty, bravery, cunning, and strength are just a small list of the variety of characteristics he displays as the soldier he is. You share those with him," Sherlock complimented, taken aback by the harshness of his tone. How peculiar, he thought. This Hatter seems to be a veteran of sorts, but what sort of war could have occurred in Underland? And what purpose would a Hatter serve in battle?

The Hatter nodded once, accepting Sherlock's words but not answering. He battled a brief surge of memories, one of his home burning, one of his friends dying, before letting his thoughts run in other directions. Sherlock watched his face as it morphed from thought to thought.

 _Who is John?_ The Hatter wondered. _What is he like?_ He glanced at Sherlock. The old friend looked odd now, there was no denying it. He was a walking monochrome. Would John look odd, too? All dull clothing, the colours of grief? 

"Come. We must consult the Oraculum," the Hatter announced to the group, taking the genius's hand then yanking him through bright red shrubberies with white berries scattered over them.


	5. You are Old, Father William.

The irony was not lost to him as they ran. Sherlock, usually the one doing the chase, felt strange being the one following someone else ( _three someone elses even!_ ) to an interesting case, if their adventure could even be called that. What would the Oraculum tell them? Would it highlight the dangers to come?

It felt as if they were running thousands of miles per hour. Silently, he ran his fingers over the Hatter's and squeezed them. If he let go, he would get lost. He could not lose this mad man. He was the only one he knew, and if he lost him, the troupe could be in danger. He would be damned if Moran or the Queen found them.

"Why is the shrubbery here so colorful?" Sherlock asked suddenly, his eyes darting around to look at maroon, chartruse, and marigold plants. A wave of sapphire trees followed.

"Colourful? Is it not the same in Lun-doon?" the Hatter spoke the name of the city oddly, as though it was foreign to his tongue. 

"London is grey, wet, and blue. If it were this colorful, I would go mad," Sherlock explained. He thought of London with melancholy. He missed the dreary city. They had wandered about for hours now, if his internal clock was correct.

The Hatter looked away as he spoke."Everywhere in Underland is bright." 

"Really? It sounds as if that is untrue, Hatter. Everywhere has a bit of darkness," he murmured, detecting the lie instantly.

"You act like the King did," Mally whispered in his ear. "You seem to both have an extraordinary mind, capable of thinking anything, capable of reading someone like a book, yet... You want to solve murders."

"You are alike but so different," the Hatter murmured in agreement.  

"The King? You've a King?" Sherlock asked. He looked down to Mally.

"He was killed by a friend of ours," she informed him.

"Rip him up," Thackery grumbled.

"He ripped him to pieces?"

"No, rip him!"

"Rip?"

"R.I.P.," Mally whispered. 

 _Oh_. Sherlock nodded. "Thank you," he whispered in response. The Hatter's fuchsia mouth thinned into a line. The group traveled in silence. Eventually, after a few more hours of fantastical colours, they reached their destination.

The Hatter sat at the edge of the clearing, looking up at the sight with a mad grin on his face. There, under the now starry sky, a pond and a waterfall rested. The waterfall ran multicoloured, glistening and foaming at the point of connection with the pond below it. The pool at the base was surrounded by glistening, crystal clear stones and a line of mushrooms.

Eyes widening as the water came into view, Sherlock gaped at the strange pool. "Where are we?" he asked, looking at the area around them in wonder.

"We are where the Oraculum is held," The Hatter trailed off, watching Sherlock's awed expression for a moment, a soft smile playing on his bright lips before he walked to a clear rock with an extremely old looking roll of parchment on it. He unraveled it, and it extended across the rocks.

"Magnificent," Sherlock's voice trailed off at the sight of the massive Calendar. It was, in no other words, amazing, yet strange to see a combination of the future and the past in one. "This is absolutely brilliant! Who created the Oraculum?" He glanced back at the Hatter and smiled. 

"No one knows who created it, but it is never wrong."

"Never? Dull. Predictability is exceedingly boring," Sherlock sighed.

Looking over the days, which had no dates, just names, The Hatter ran his fingers over one particular one. It showed two men, one smaller and one taller, looking at each other and shaking hands, both with a dagger strapped to their hip. The smaller had his hair slicked back and dark eyes, whereas the taller had waves of hair. The images moved, and the smaller man smiled, darkness surrounding his side where light surrounded the other.  The moving pictures on the calendar were familiar to Sherlock. He and Moriarty. It was disturbingly similar to the situation that occurred on the top of St. Bart's years ago.

"That is Moriarty. That already happened to me in London," Sherlock murmured.

"It seems that your world is twined with ours. The events which happen here also happen there.This event, the King," the Hatter pointed to Moriarty, "died. The same happened to our friend. " The Hatter's fingers traced the lines of the two men, before he closed the parchment, hiding it so Sherlock wouldn't see anything he didn't want the genius to see.

"Moriarty caused the deaths of hundreds of people. He organised crimes. I can only assume your King was the same way. His death was deserved. I am sorry your friend had to go with him," he said quietly. His eyes glimpsed an image of himself after the one of the pair of them. "Hold on, Hatter. What was that?"

"Beyond the Frabjous day nothing concerns you. You do not need to look," the Hatter hissed firmly, pulling the Oraculum against his chest. Thackery yelped angrily.

"I saw myself. Of course it concerns me," Sherlock hissed. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the Hatter's wrists. "I need to know my future. I need to see how I face the Queen, how I meet her, so I can defeat her."

The touch felt odd, to the Hatter. Why, he didn't know. Regardless, he listened with rapt attention, gazing up at the genius and nodding slowly. "You want to meet the Queen?" he asked, blinking, concern furrowing his brow.

Sherlock's brows furrowed. Of course he did. Couldn't the Hatter tell? He would need to meet the woman on Frabjous day in the very least. "Yes. After I see the rest of the Oraculum, of course," he clarified. The trail his mind went on wandered back to the image of himself. What was it? Why did the Hatter want to hide it so badly?

Carefully, Sherlock massaged the Hatter's wrists and attempted to peel them back from the scroll. A look of grim determination settled in the Hatter's unsettlingly bright blue eyes, before his fingers tightened.

"You do not need to see it." He stated firmly. "I will assist you. I know the way to her kingdom and she takes a liking to me. I do not know why. Also, you will need protection, so we will find you a weapon," the Hatter babbled a little, trying to avert Sherlock's attention. 

An angry growl rose from Sherlock's throat. He loathed not knowing things, especially if the information was hidden purposefully from him! Looming over the man as he spoke, he drilled daggers into the smaller man's head. "Don't hide things from me. I agreed to help you, but if you do not give me what I want, you will come to understand the scrutiny of my malice," he breathed defiantly. "Find me my weapon later. I have you for protection."

Fear flicked across The Hatter's eyes and his fingers loosened. Sherlock had sounded like him. Like the King. He 'helped' people, but there was always something to pay. Swallowing somewhat nervously, he even tried to keep his breathing quiet, almost silent, as not to anger the genius further. His bright eyes avoided the detective's, fixing on the swirls of colour in the water beside him. Miniature feet crawled up the Hatter's sleeve.

"Get off, Mally," he muttered.

"'Snot me," she replied from Sherlock's shoulder. The Hatter jumped, startled by the contact. He turned his head to spot a small blue caterpillar chain-smoking in his face.

"Hatter," the deep voice of Absolem rumbled.

"Absolem. Off," he sighed. "You startled me."

"You startled me with your shouting and stomping. What are you doing with the Oraculum?" The insect asked, blowing a puff of smoke in his face. The Hatter batted it away.

"We've Sherlock. He's going to help us. We just needed to consult the-"

"-Oraculum. I understand." 

The Hatter smiled, his pale teeth gleaming under his lips. 

"Leave it here," Absolem commanded. "I do not want to lose it, or have the Red Queen find it. You can return and study it later."

Sherlock glared at the bug and lowered his face to look it in the eye. "And who are you to say we can't just keep it?"

"I am Absolem. Who are  _you_?" _  
_

"I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. You'll be incapacitated for the next few hours. We could easily steal it."

"Is that who you are? A  _thief_?"

"No."

"Then who are you?"

"Sh-"

"I did not ask for your name; I asked for  _you_ _._ "

"Then I don't know!"

"Shocking, isn't it?" the clever caterpillar drawled. He blew smoke over his nose, then turned and crawled down the Hatter's body, twisting between the glass rocks until he made it to the grass. "Come back to me when you do."

Sherlock crossed his arms, watching the devilish creature leave. "Bollocks," he muttered. The Hatter snorted, placing the Oraculum where he originally found it. Sherlock paused at the sound. He felt a twinge of guilt for his poor actions. After some deliberation, he reached out for the Hatter's hands.

"My apologies for my behaviour earlier, Hatter. I do not like not knowing things. Withholding this from me sparked anger in my already frustrated psyche. Take me to the kingdom," Sherlock murmured, painfully forcing out the apology.


	6. Look into its eyes again to see if there are any tears

"Please look at me," Sherlock sighed, a few agonizing moments of silence battering the inside of his skull with unaddressed thoughts. He processed the sights around him as they went, confusing his logic-centered mind in ways it had not ever been before. Nothing made  _sense_. It hurt to see what was around him. Of all the things he encountered, the Hatter confounded him most of all. The striking resemblance he bore to John (Note: Need to get home to John as soon as physically possible) bothered him more than anything. Then the talking animals, and the bio-luminescent plants. Sherlock grasped at his curls, scrunching his eyes tightly.

"Alright. I will take you to his kingdom," the Hatter replied suddenly, breaking the still of the room and chaos of Sherlock's head in the same breath. He hopped into the water and waded toward the waterfall. Finally, he obeyed Sherlock's request and lifted his eyes to the same horizontal level, his arms flailing dramatically to direct the entourage. "This way."

Sherlock released his hair and slowly opened his eyes. He smiled shyly back at the Hatter and remained silent as they walked, afraid of terrifying him again by accident. Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and watched the swirls of technicolor ripple out from his legs.

Mally and the Hatter shared a concerned look before he walked right under the waterfall, stepping out into a cavern, tipping the water from his hat, and then waited for the detective. Thackery hopped the suited fellow closely.

Sherlock cautiously followed the Hatter's steps and looked around the strange cave. It appeared to be made of crystal and, if he had the same poetic sense that John did, starlight.

"'And the raven said to the worm, 'may, what mess have you stumbled into?''" the Hatter murmured, almost to himself though his voice still echoed across the sparkling cavern. "This way," he ordered as he walked, flowers blossoming as the group passed through.

Sherlock removed himself from the situation to dwell in his mind palace. He vaguely noticed a shift in his surroundings, namely the walls of the cavern and the shift in weight on his right shoulder. The sound of water dripping helped him focus on organizing himself. As the images of Underland filed away into careful, considerate boxes, a twitch of fur on Sherlock's cheek interrupted him again. He hissed and opened his eyes.

Fascination morphed his face into more of an expression of awe than annoyance. Underland was, indeed, a place of magic. Orange and indigo poppies with sprinkles of glowing dust peeked out from between the cracks. They twinkled against the jewels.  If only John could see all of this, he thought. He would love it.

Sherlock's eyes stayed on the winding poppies as they moved. What sort of dust was that, he wondered. He plucked one and brought it to his nose, closing his eyes as he cataloged the scent of the dust, then the petals. 

Mally yipped and bit Sherlock's ear. "Don't open your eyes!" she hissed. "Put that down, Sherlock!"

The Hatter turned and let out a soft gasp, quickly leaping to the left of the sleuth and lifting Mallymkun to his finger, and then placing her in the hands of Thackery. She snuggled in his small petticoat. To his right, Sherlock heard the sound of a soft purr. The flick of a tail brushed against his cheek.

"Hatter, what's going on?" Sherlock asked slowly, releasing the poppy and screwing his lids shut even tighter. A soft palm encircled his own. "Hatter?"

"Don't open them, Sherlock," the Hatter whispered. Neither he nor Mally acknowledged the sound Sherlock knew was emulating from a space beside his ear. It was infuriating. Instead, they walked over bright crystalline floors. 

The cavern wound in twists and turns which the Hatter seemed to know by heart. His face was tightly sprung, the gears of his mad head crunching painfully to figure out the safest route out. Sherlock turned his head slightly to the right, brushing against an invisible face of fur.

"Come out," Sherlock demanded.

"Hush," a gentle voice purred back. He scowled. The Hatter squeezed his hand. The voice went on. "Sherlock, correct? You must be careful."

Sherlock snorted.  _Obviously_. If even the flowers were so fantastically dangerous, who know what else there could be?

"Tut. The others can't hear me, and you're nearly blowing my cover," it continued. A wisp of whiskers tickled the tip of his nose. "The Hatter will keep you safe. He's taking you to the Queen's castle now."

"Why?" Sherlock muttered under his breath. 

"The red-painted roses counter the poppies," it explained. 

"But what have the poppies done?"

"They take away your sight. If you open your eyes, it's permanently gone," the Hatter answered before the voice could. The air around Sherlock's shoulder cooled as his scalp heated under the delicious texture of silk fur.

"He's right," it said, smirking. Sherlock could see its mad grin behind his lids.

"I need my sight," Sherlock proclaimed.

"Then don't open your eyes," the voice said simply. It did not see the foreign wetness on Sherlock's lashes, nor did the owner of those lashes himself. If asked, he insisted it was an automatic reaction or an allergy, avoiding the truth of his stale fear of loss and strange tang of loneliness on his lips.


End file.
